


One Golden Glance (Of What Should Be)

by Sunjinjo



Series: Wings, Scales, Nightingales [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Art, Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, M/M, Painting, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 20:31:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunjinjo/pseuds/Sunjinjo
Summary: His first batch of pieces had all been starscapes, and increasingly big and dramatic ones at that. It’d turned out he’d really needed to get a lot of pent-up celestial creativity out of his system.Crowley discovers a new hobby. It might actually be a really old one, though, and the same sort of applies to Aziraphale.Can be read as a standalone work.





	One Golden Glance (Of What Should Be)

It was an uncharacteristically warm June night, one of those nights where all that mattered was that it was unreasonably late and the evening had been wonderful, and all you wanted was just to keep a good thing going. There wasn’t anywhere else they could’ve ended up than in the bookshop’s back room with just one of those bottles of that excellent Cheval Blanc St. Emilion, dear, it’s the perfect way to top things off, oh alright, one more then, stay a little longer…

_One more_ had turned into a tableful, and _oh alright_ had turned into overbright smiles and overly animated gestures. _A little longer_ was already past 3 AM.

“No, I’m sure the Sistine Chapel was one of ours,” Aziraphale was saying, with a wobbly sort of absolute certainty. “Text… textbook example of angelic inspiration, that is.”

Crowley grinned brightly, his yellow irises carelessly overblown as his hold over them had slipped. “You’d think that, right? Not sso. Snuck in for a little intervention right in the middle. Gave old Michelangelo,” he swirled his glass around in a loose hand, “the idea of putting the Almighty in that cloak that looks like a brain.”

A gasp, scandalized and just a little delighted. “You _didn’t!_”

Crowley spread his hands. “Well, he already hated that Pope, hardly my fault. I just pushed him into a little… _take that._” He sniffed, frowned a little. “Hoped it’d stir up some trouble, but the atheists didn’t catch on for _centuries._ And I never even got to see it m’self.”

Aziraphale pondered this for a hazy moment. “We could go. Little, little holiday. I’d like to see Italy again.”

“Nahh.” The demon flapped a hand at him. “Chapel’s been crowded for five centuries. Did my job too well, damn ceiling’s too popular. I’d be hopping in place sandwiched in a crowd for,” he searched his memory, trying to estimate how long people usually spent at historic landmarks, then giving up, “for _hours,_ hours and hours. No thankss. Also, really, angel – I won’t be caught dead in the bloody _Vatican._” He paused, turning this over in his head. “Or maybe I would. If I went. All that holiness and whatnot – y’know even looking at a crucifix sstings a little? And there’s bound to be boatloads of holy water there. Even if they do house a branch of mafia.” That hadn’t been his doing, but he appreciated the incongruency nonetheless.

“We wouldn’t be _staying_ in the Vatican, wouldn’t do that to you,” Aziraphale indignantly admonished him. “Rome, Rome’s lovely this time of, of… oh!” The angel brightened, pulled over into another train of thought just as it left the station. “Crowley, speaking of Italy, you remember those days in Florence? That lovely fellow Leonardo?”

“Course I do. Finest century save for this one. Got me all over the fourteenth.” Crowley glared at his glass, terrorizing it into a refill. “Why d’you think I have his sketch center stage?”

“What a remarkable chap he was.”

“Fair’s fair, a lot of it came from the two of us working on him at the same time. Legitima- legi- really thought we’d fry his brain, at a few pointss.”

The angel beamed at him, the wine stretching his smile even wider and brighter than normal, wisps of his halo shimmering around his head. “Fine chap. Good friend. Even so, we did sort of use him as an excuse, didn’t we. To dither around one another.”

Crowley raised his glass with a grin. “To dithering. Finest pastime of the Renaissance.”

“I still. Y’know. Still have the portrait he did of you.”

“Wh-?” The demon sputtered his way through a mouthful of wine. “_You?!_ That’ss where it went?!”

The angel permitted himself a smug little smirk. “_And_ the one he did of me.”

Crowley sank back into his chair, his eyes wide. “You didn’t. You sat for him too?”

Aziraphale rose from his own seat, raising a finger. “Wait, wait.” He wobbled, remembered to put down his glass just in time. “Lemme go get them.”

“Please do.” The demon followed him with his eyes for a moment, then feebly reached out after him. “Wait, no, don’t go get them – just miracle them down here, you feathery dolt –” He closed his eyes as he heard the angel stumbling around on the stairs, wiping across his face and wondering if this was worth sobering up for, but then a triumphant ‘aha!’ rekindled his faith in the situation. A moment later, Aziraphale returned balancing two meticulously cloth-wrapped canvases, carefully bringing them to light.

Two signed portraits in red chalk, looking back at their models with faint smiles. Portrait-Crowley’s hair reached just past the nape of his neck, and the eyes behind his round smoky quartz spectacles showed a hint of subtly serpentine pupils, dilated enough to pass for human at a glance – the demon usually used illusions when people _really_ paid attention, but there’d been no hiding from Leonardo. Portrait-Aziraphale looked exactly as he always had, dressed in an airy contemporary getup with poofy sleeves and an elegant ruff. He bore a scroll in his left hand, while Crowley held an apple in his right. Their free hands rested on a book.

The same book. On Aziraphale’s end, it was titled _Ombra E Luce._

“They fit together,” Crowley stated in that matter-of-fact sort of way that betrayed a dry mouth and a hammering heart. “Bring – bring them closer together – yeah. They _match._ That’s a – that’s a couples thing. That absolute _basstard._” He stared up at Aziraphale. “You’ve had them this whole time?”

“Ye- well, no, it actually took quite the effort to track down yours –”

“_Bastard._”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, looking for all the world like someone about to launch into something akin to _well, there really is no need for that kind of language,_ but then thought better of it and took another sip. “Just enough to be worth knowing, or so I hear,” he then remarked, looking and sounding wholly too sober.

“Bastard angel.” Crowley seemed disinclined to let go of the thought, even with how brightly his eyes were shining now; almost bright enough to cast a glow of their own. He was wearing that same kind of light, subtle smile he’d had that day at the Ritz, visibly marveling at his angelic counterpart right through his alcoholic daze. “Incredible bastard ang- I’d like to paint you.” It slipped out too easily, clearly bypassing Crowley’s brain and all scrutiny therein, straight from his subconscious to his mouth.

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to sputter. “You – begging your pardon?”

“I mean.” The demon’s eyes were wide, and some part of him clearly wanted to barrel on, to blurt out _people should be painting you all the time, because you’re incredible and gorgeous and stunning and no one’s ever quite done you justice yet._ Regrettably, this particular part was rapidly sobering up under Aziraphale’s stunned and a little shocked gaze, and quickly pedaled back to let a less impulsive part take the wheel. Even after almost a year of newfound openness, some things could still tie immortal tongues into knots, and probably would for a good while longer. “I mean. I’d like to paint. Period. Try my hand at creating stuff myself.”

“Do you, um. D’you think you could?” the angel managed, neatly folding away the moment himself, settling back into prim and only slightly tipsy interest. “Not to offend, dear boy, but I heard demons don’t create. Adversaries of Creation an’ all.”

“Ah, but that’s just it,” Crowley said, waggling a finger. “’S what they _tell_ you. Told you _and_ me, you see. Demons don’t create in the same way they don’t stop Arma- Arm- the Big Av’cado.[1] Same way they don’t enjoy angelic company.” He winked, cautiously testing Aziraphale’s waters. The angel managed a warm smile back, and the demon relaxed somewhat. “Anyway. Won’t let that stop me. Not now. Free of all that bollocks.”

“But. Yes. But. I mean, yes, we all worked on Creation alongside Her, but,” the angel aimlessly gestured his glass around, “even, even angels haven’t gotten much done at all since then, creative-wise. We’re not anywhere near humanity’s ingenu- inge- knack with stuff. All stuck in the same old rut, I mean.”

“_We’ve_ both inspired people, you ‘n me,” Crowley remarked, attempting to sit up straighter. “Lightning straight to the noggin, all of them. Can’t see why we’d be any different ourselves.”

Aziraphale frowned a little as he tried to grasp this. “Trying ethereal and occult inspiration on _ourselves?_”

“Ah, _saving_ it for ourselves, maybe. Think about it. Been freelancing at best for a while now.”

The angel hazily looked around, the bookshelves wobbling back at him. “Do love reading. But writing – Heavens no, far too complicated[2].”

“Mm,” Crowley agreed. “Weird breed of human, authors. But painting, ha, painting can’t be that hard, right? I’ve painted with whole bloody _galaxies,_ for Someone’s sake. Some regular old _human_ paint sshouldn’t be a challenge.”

“I’m quite sure there’s a lot more to it than one would –”

“I’m gonna do it.” The demon downed his drink, a glint of terrifying motivation in his eyes. “Paint something. Anything really. Gonna be an artist. See if I don’t.”

“Oh dear. I rather imagine I will.” The angel reciprocated as Crowley triumphantly leant in for a resounding toast, and already found himself sympathizing with the demon’s poor apartment.

The angel had been right to.

Crowley had downplayed it as they’d been drinking, but Hell really had been rather big on their rule that demons Should Not and therefore Did Not Create, instead pushing them to favour the disruption and destruction of God’s cherished Creation they’d turned their backs on. The policy had shaped his life, his home, for millennia. No matter how much creativity he kept stashed away in his sharp, too-human mind, he’d never really done anything with it outside of his demonic schemes, and even those were usually so unnecessarily creative in the eyes of his former superiors that those eyes had turned dangerously mistrustful long before Armageddon. If he’d been to actually create anything just for himself, it’d have been severely frowned upon at best, most probably destroyed by some unwelcome visitors from Below, and would have elicited outright bodily punishment at worst. And so his apartment had remained minimalistic, only filled with mementos he could justify as stolen property, and a few things that created _themselves_ – his plants.

But now… now everything was different, wasn’t it. Everything kept turning, like a night sky rearranging its constellations, and he was far from finished discovering and naming new ones in that glittering array.

The very morning after his night of drinking with Aziraphale, the demon’s apartment had been turned into a realm of absolute chaos that’d make Dis and Pandemonium pale in comparison. He’d indiscriminately plundered the nearest Soho store for art supplies on his way home that morning, and for perhaps the first time ever, his home-that-wasn’t-really seemed actually _lived_ in. Or at least discovered-a-new-hobby in. It was a war zone of opened and unopened paint cans, haphazardly leaning canvases and collections of brushes of every description.

Paint fumes pervaded the whole flat, but concentrated around what had been Crowley’s designated computer room – meaning it had contained his computer[3] and nothing else, making it perfect to be promoted to an impromptu art studio. He hadn’t thought to open any windows. He didn’t strictly need to breathe. He still _did,_ however, and this explained a lot about the progression of his thought processes and the resulting works he’d produced over the course of a day, a night and the most part of another day straight.

His first batch of pieces had all been starscapes, and increasingly big and dramatic ones at that. It’d turned out he’d really needed to get a lot of pent-up celestial creativity out of his system, trying his hand at dotting and flicking paint onto darkened canvases, and eventually even using his trusty plastic plant mister just for the Heaven of it. It’d been very surprised to find itself able to handle substances thicker than water, but it wasn’t the strangest experience of its humble plastic existence. And so, it’d helped turn the studio into a sprawling trove of dark and light nebulous vistas of increasingly explosive skies, swirling galaxies and stellar nurseries.

It’d been marvelous fun, if a little frustrating at some points. He could use miracles to clean up the mess he made of the floor and walls, as well as his brushes and the plant mister, but they were no help in the actual creative process. He had to do that the human way, all the way through. As usual, this was a blessing and a curse all in one; some things didn’t work out the way he wanted them to, but this made every little victory all the sweeter, and even his misfires sometimes turned into unexpected lessons or unforeseen positive outcomes. Crowley did love to be surprised. All in all, it felt unspeakably _right_ to be doing this, cranking out creation after creation. It felt like what he was meant to be doing. It felt like coming home, somehow.

Now it was late in the afternoon, and the demon had turned to the internet for new inspiration. He’d stumbled upon a treasure trove of instructional videos, and was simultaneously enlightening himself on acrylic pouring and trying the process out for himself.

He was using red and black, figuring you couldn’t go wrong with those. He wasn’t having any luck, however; the patterns he was getting as he tilted the canvas around, allowing the mixture of paints to spread, weren’t anywhere near the gorgeous, swirling patterns shown in the video. As the clip and his own efforts ended, he was left with a mess of colours blurred into eachother, not at all resembling the dramatic contrast he’d been going for. He scowled at it, lifting the dripping canvas, feeling momentarily out of his depth from being unable to bully the paint into behaving better.

Then, on pure – though possibly fume-addled – impulse, he spun around and flung the piece face-first into the nearest wall. It hit with a satisfying, wet smack, and Crowley grinned. “That’ll learn you.”

The canvas didn’t reply, but merely slid down, leaving a fiery-looking smear.

Crowley halted, shivering for a moment. With the vague notion he shouldn’t be doing this, he moved to pick up his handiwork, turning it over.

Messy. Streaking. Burning.

An open wound in more ways than one.

He stared down at it, frozen up for so long that when he even thought of blinking again, the canvas had dried. He blindly grasped behind him for a brush, dipping it into a nearby can of black and adding a quick shape, with the practiced ease of jotting down a signature, before staring some more. Then he forced his eyes away, leaving the work to clatter to the ground face-down.

That was the moment the doorbell rang, just for a fraction of a second, brief enough as to not let its shrillness fully pervade the apartment. Only one person rang like that, and he was able to get in before Crowley had gotten to his feet, no key required. “Afternoon, my dear! I figured I’d pop in a little earlier – _oh!_” A stunned pause. “Well, look at this… Crowley, these are _gorgeous…_” A stifled cough, and the snap of a finger. “Allow me to open a window, though –”

The demon had rocketed to his feet and out into the hallway, just as more or less fresh London air came rushing in though the window in his study. He could feel his head clearing as he met his angel’s eyes. Aziraphale was standing amidst the sea of paintcans, holding one of the starscapes he’d left in the hallway and beaming as he looked up at its creator. Then a hint of worry crept into his gaze. “Are you quite alright?”

Crowley sinuously leant against the wall at once, the very picture of cool. “What would make you think otherwise?”

“Don’t get me wrong, dear, but you look a bit… well, disheveled.”

The demon looked down at himself, and realized he’d neglected to do so for the past twenty-four hours at the very least. His sharp attire had gotten all frumpy, not to mention spattered in a rainbow of paint, painting a strange picture indeed to one so used to seeing him in black and black only. He ran a hand through his hair, but didn’t feel this improved anything. He sheepishly resorted to miracling himself clean. “Should’ve worn that apron,” he muttered.

“You didn’t eat or sleep, did you. You didn’t do anything but paint since you came home.” Aziraphale fondly cupped his cheek, pressing a gentle, grounding kiss to his lips. Crowley took a breath, remembering what fresh air was like. He felt like waking from a dream into an even lovelier one. The angel smiled, turning around. “Your works are beautiful, dear. I hadn’t expected anything less from a starmaker. But you do need to take care of yourself.”

“We don’t _need_ food or sleep, angel,” the demon replied with a fond smile, strolling after his angelic counterpart as he ventured into the studio and let out a soft gasp at the further crowd of starry works waiting inside. “You really picked this up fast.”

“Well, it was my job once upon a time. Paint is surprisingly similar to starstuff.” Crowley followed Aziraphale with his eyes as the angel moved to the canvas he’d dropped. “Wait, that’s –”

“And what’s this?” Aziraphale turned it over, widened his eyes. “…Oh.”

Crowley stood beside him, looking over his shoulder.

An impression of a writhing black snake, caught in a descending eruption of hellish red and surrounded by inky black on all sides. The demon hadn’t fully intended to make this. Still, it radiated something too raw and intense to ever put into words.

The angel looked up at him with something in his eyes he refused to endure, much less put a name to. “Oh, dearest, are you alright?”

Crowley managed to croak out something, but it wasn’t really a reassuring answer in any way.

In all their six thousand years together, they’d never truly discussed the Fall. Sure, it’d been mentioned, but more as a general thing, something that’d Happened. Never in any sort of detail, never _his_ Fall. And Crowley had always insisted he’d merely _sauntered,_ and Aziraphale had always known better – he’d seen it happen from topside, after all, and he’d remember the screams and burning feathers for the rest of his days. He’d also known better than to press something so deeply torturous, however. But now he held the demon’s gaze and spoke up. “Crowley… what does a Fall actually look like?”

Crowley’s body had gone completely numb. He was almost surprised to find his tongue still obeying him. “It… burns.” He swallowed. “You just… You burn.” He opened his mouth as if to say more – part of him had plenty more to say – but his voice wouldn’t behave as intended, and it was so much easier to just stop there. _Nope. Not ready for this yet. Might not ever be. Sorry, angel._ He took a breath, tucked away his tattered thoughts and agonized memories with the relative ease of lots of experience, and gently took the canvas from the angel’s slightly trembling hands. “Let’s put this away. Made it by accident, anyway.”

“Al… alright.”

“You’ve got to see what I’ve learned.” Crowley turned to the desk, picking up a fresh canvas with a jaunty flip. “I haven’t tried this one yet, but just wait until you see what the humans have thought up now – it’s crazy what they do with colanders.” He miracled one up to demonstrate, but then reconsidered, offering it to Aziraphale. “Wait, you try – you just let it seep through and then tilt the canvas, the results are really something else, especially with gold –”

Aziraphale looked at the demon, who’d already managed to get fresh paint on his clothes in the few steps he’d taken though the minefield of a room, and then down at his own carefully kept attire. He shrugged out of his coat, endearment bubbling up inside him. “Not without that apron you mentioned, dear.”

“Oh. Of course.” Crowley flashed a grin, striding off to go find it. Aziraphale cracked a smile as well, quietly moving the miraculous restaurant reservation he’d made up an hour.

Crowley’s new hobby progressed with big, single-minded strides. Every time Aziraphale visited his apartment there were new things to be seen, in an increasing variety of styles; the demon had a penchant for dabbling in the abstract to express the things he couldn’t find the words for, but he also dipped into impressionism, in this case literally. To Aziraphale’s slight horror, the demon had used his snake form to slither the painted basework for a tree all over a truly humongous canvas, and then also used the pattern of his scales to add an explosion of lush green and other bright colours. The whole of it could only convey Eden in all its remembered glory.

He’d created a diptych comparing the pastel dream Heaven had been prior to Creation, contrasting it against the white, angular office setting the angels had so callously turned it into. He’d recreated the baffling view from that office, the replicas of Earth’s skyscrapers, churches and pyramids all jumbled together, and then found he really did prefer them in their Earthly setting, taking to the depiction of increasingly realistic cityscapes, portraying his appreciation for London and the other cities he’d called home. This realism led into attempts at various individual portraits, failed attempts of which were dismissed with a laugh and the insistence they’d been intended as caricatures, but Crowley’s improvement was undeniable. Aziraphale could see him developing with every single visit, and frequently told him so. Still, the demon miracled away every unsatisfactory work, which was most of them. Aziraphale got to see the majority of Crowley’s paintings only once, if ever.

The angel still held the hazy, wine-soaked memory of the demon impulsively promising to paint _him,_ but neither of them had mentioned it again. Aziraphale was more than happy to see Crowley developing and expressing himself this way, and gleeful and eager to supply his commentary and compliments. His demon had spent so long keeping this side of himself hidden from Hell’s eyes; he now felt privileged to protect, guard and nurse the growing sense of joy it provided.

Then, he started picking up on the talk on the streets.

Artworks had started popping up out of nowhere in back alleys all over London. None of them were signed, but over time people had connected them all to the same mysterious artist, seemingly a master of many styles at once. The element of mystery was a source of fascination and frustration alike, first among the people finding the works and simply wondering where they’d come from, but eventually also for higher society once certain peculiarities were discovered and they started taking an interest. Upon analysis, this mystery artist appeared to share some subtle techniques with Michelangelo and da Vinci, in ways not seen since the masters themselves. Some of the portraits and impressions carried elements of ancient Egyptian reliefs and Greek frescoes, complete with the appropriate choice in pigments, like obscure historical nods and winks, and art historians from an increasing number of divisions found themselves intrigued. And then there was the precise usage of scale imprints, and strokes of paint seemingly left by a live, moving reptile that even caught the interest of a few biologists…

Over the weeks that followed, Aziraphale tracked the progression of the rumours and speculation with amused interest and more than a bit of pride, although he kept it to himself for now; he didn’t yet know what Crowley would think of the commentary, and didn’t want to interrupt the demon’s evident pleasure in unfiltered creativity. Still, he couldn’t help his own influence shining through a little bit; every time he heard someone discussing the works on the street, in a little restaurant or cafe, or even at art galleries showcasing other artists, his heart beat a little faster and he quite literally lit up from the inside. He simply couldn’t help it. Given his angelic nature, this had its repercussions. The people around him picked up on his joy, their own enthusiasm and interest grew, and the mystery artist grew ever more popular. Aziraphale hardly had to do anything to nurture it further. The works grew in value all on their own, constantly changing hands, gathering in those of collectors and connoisseurs.

Then it all crossed a threshold, and the National Portrait Gallery announced they were hosting an exhibition.

Aziraphale could scarcely contain himself or his grin as he and Crowley approached the Gallery’s monumental, Corinthian-styled main entrance. The demon hadn’t suspected a thing when they’d left home. Like all artists suddenly realizing a new passion, he’d been completely swept up in it for a few weeks, neglecting his outdoors demonic freelancing even moreso than usual and favouring quicker, online dark deeds instead[4]. As such, the happenings in the city and the popularity of his works had gone completely over his head. Aziraphale had been patient about that until now, but there was only so much even he could keep to himself.

“I’m glad you’re so hyped about this, angel, but I am a bit stumped as to why you still won’t tell me which artist we’re visiting,” the demon was saying. “Inspiring to both of us, you said?”

“I’m fairly sure it will be,” Aziraphale beamed. “Pip-pip, dear. All will be clear in a minute.”

“Must be some historically significant material. You’ve never appreciated modern human art.” Crowley quirked a smile. “You could just tell me what you’d like to see more of in my material, you know.”

“I would never. It’s perfect just the way it is.” Aziraphale’s smile would’ve been too much to bear without the added protection of sunglasses. The angel looked around, then tugged the demon up a flight of stairs. “Ah, it’s up in the Sainsbury Wing…”

As they stepped into the first of a few adjacent rooms featuring the collection they’d come for, Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hand slip from his own as he stepped forward a bit too fast and left the demon rooted to the spot. The angel turned around in slight worry. “Dearest?”

Crowley looked around, scanning the room, eyes stuttering over the works visible between the other visitors thronging before them. Aziraphale couldn’t actually see his eyes, but he knew they had to be big as saucers, and the demon’s control over his yellow irises had probably slipped as well. “…Oh.” He stepped back at once, taking Crowley’s hand securely between his own. “It’s alright. It’s alright, just…” He gently steered his demon inside, out of the entrance so others could pass through, settling on one of the vacant benches lining the walls in between the works. “There.”

“My stuff.” Crowley’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a raspy breath.

“Yes.”

“My stuff, my discarded stuff, it’s here.”

“The people took an awful liking to it, it seems.” Aziraphale ran his thumb across Crowley’s tension-pale knuckles, hoping he was doing some sort of soothing, not daring to reach out to the demon’s turbulent aura. He hadn’t quite expected this reaction, though he should’ve anticipated it. “And rightfully so, if I may be so bold.”

“The bloody _National Gallery._ I didn’t – I just – I miracled them away for a _laugh,_ at _random_ –” A few flickering scales shimmered across the demon’s cheek as he stammered, and Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “Don’t transform, dear, if you would. It’d be awfully hard to explain having to leave the premises carrying a huge black snake.” He paused. “Not that I wouldn’t perform as many miracles as needed to get away with it, of course.”

This seemed to snap Crowley out of it somewhat, as he gave a brief, distracted headshake. “No, no, I won’t. I just – gah –” He snapped around, fixating the angel. “You – you knew. Is this your doing?”

“Just a little bit, perhaps,” Aziraphale fidgeted, feeling slightly guilty despite knowing he didn’t have to be. “I think I gave a few unintentional nudges? But they loved your work already, you were all the rage before I even picked up on it. You do know how I am with trends, dear.”

“They love my work,” the demon echoed, his tone and expression carefully blank. “This whole thing –” He glanced ahead, through the first room of the exhibition to the next, displaying his cityscapes, and all the people that had gathered and were still arriving to see his art. “I never even signed them, I’m a nobody, and still –” He shook himself again, more of a shudder this time, and chose to ignore the rather novel sensation of impostor syndrome to instead direct his focus elsewhere. “How did it even start? If they can’t be attributed to anyone…”

“Part of all proceeds go to the people that first found them,” the angel replied, a hint of pride to his voice. “That _was_ my doing, as soon as I found out. Wherever you miracled your works, the homeless population has been considerably better off.”

Crowley stared at him, torn between admiring gratitude and a bout of habitual, reflexive grousing, but then just nodded somewhat stiffly. “That’s. That’s very kind of you. Towards the humans, that is.”

“Don’t mention it,” Aziraphale smiled. He interlaced their fingers. “Are you ready to see what they have to say about your work, darling?”

Crowley allowed himself to be pulled up, but his movements still appeared stiff and stilted – guarded. “These are the things I discarded,” he muttered. “Imperfect, just practice –”

“But still beautiful. Nothing is perfect, dear. Perfection is –”

“I swear to Someone, if you say ‘ineffable’ –”

“– unattainable, love, and I wouldn’t dare. Perfection is unattainable. All anyone can do is strive for it.”

_Oh, come off it_ would’ve been ripe on Crowley’s tongue if Aziraphale had been any other angel at all. As matters stood, he was the only celestial being who could possibly mean this, and the truth of the words made Crowley’s head spin a bit. The demon forced his attention away and towards the little plaques affixed beside his works, curious despite himself to see what the humans thought of them.

_Untitled Starscape – This starscape has been identified as an image of the Orion Nebula, but curiously pictured from a different angle than would be visible from Earth or any unmanned probe yet sent. The exquisite three-dimensional effect produced by multiple layers of tilted acrylic tells us the artist has a thorough understanding of and a deep love for both the beauty of the night sky and the intricacies of astrophysics._

“Spot-on there,” Crowley chuckled. “Very perceptive when they put their minds to it, you’ve gotta give it to them.”

“Did you paint all of them from ‘impossible’ angles and perspectives?” Aziraphale quietly asked, looking around as they moved on.

“Well, yeah. I was all over the place back in the day, hardly stopped to dither where Earth was planned to be. Did most of them from memory, not current observation.”

“That’ll send them into a tizzy, when they realize they’re not just imagination or interpretation.”

“I suppose inspiring questions is what I do, even when just practicing a hobby.” Crowley’s demeanor was as gleeful as when he’d granted real guns to the paintballing businesspeople at Tadfield Manor. “Let them wonder. Maybe they’ll properly fund the Space Agency for once, the poor sods.”

Aziraphale halted at one of the cityscapes. “_Unsettling but glorious,_” the angel murmured aloud, gazing up at a fog-veiled composition depicting both Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and the hypermodern glass-and-steel Shard on the banks of the Thames. “_An almost inhuman perspective, suggesting disregard for the cityscape and the passage of time, but also a fondness for what was and will never be again. Interestingly, the lighting suggests a setting at either dawn or dusk, which is also taken to hold symbolic meaning._” He glanced over his shoulder. Crowley had clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into the palms of his hands. Aziraphale, who remembered the days his demon had spent on this painting and knew exactly what symbolism had been intended, gently reached back towards him. “That’s a very… apt description, I’m sure.”

“Show, don’t tell,” the demon croaked.

“It’s nonsense,” a man beside them chuckled. “That fog? That’s the artist’s disinterest, a way to work in less detail. Nothing unsettling about it.”

Crowley let out a quiet hiss, and the man immediately shivered. “H-huh.” He looked around, back up at the painting, and then backed away. He only approached one more painting before leaving the room altogether. “I’ll show you unsettling,” the demon muttered, pleased with his subtle handiwork. A little nudge in perspective, and the human mind does the trick all by itself.

“Don’t haunt the paintings, dear.”

“They’re probably already cursed,” Crowley shrugged. “Created with demonic intent and all.” He sauntered over to the last room, lined with portraits, the most recent thing he’d tried his hand at. Most of them were done from memory too, depicting people the demon had grown close to or admired throughout history. His audience was especially drawn to the dramatically lit Freddy Mercury and lavishly decorated Hatshepsut, but almost completely ignored the brown-skinned man with the short-cropped hair and gentle smile Crowley headed towards. “Hm. Thought he’d garner more interest.” He glanced at the plaque. “Didn’t even guess his name.”

Aziraphale quirked a smile. “Well, you painted him as he was. I suppose everyone pictures the Italian popularization. Maybe if you’d have given him the crown of thorns…”

The demon grimaced. “Nah.”

“Agreed.”

Unexpected to the angel, Crowley only lingered a moment longer, reading the room with demonic ease and gauging his unwitting audience’s reactions. When he’d apparently found what he’d needed to, he took the angel’s arm. “Let’s go. Seen enough.” He was shivering ever so slightly, but walking with long, purposeful strides all the same. “Did you like it?” Aziraphale ventured carefully.

“Mhm.” Crowley glanced at him, linking their arms together a bit more tightly. “Thanks, angel. Having some… unbiased feedback is quite useful, turns out.”

“Unbiased – my opinions aren’t _biased_ –”

“You’re not exactly critical of my work.”

“Why should I be? It’s all so very lovely, and you progress so quickly, too! It’s delightful simply seeing you work.”

“Case. Point.”

“Oh,” the angel huffed. “Well, all right. I’ll try my best to be more critical.”

“No need, no need,” the demon chuckled. “Not like I’m any better where it comes to _you…_”

And as the angel blushed a flustered pink, and the two of them left the exhibition with only eyes for eachother, they missed how one of the visitors kept a far sharper eye on _them,_ and slunk out right after them.

Visiting his own exhibition had had its influences on Crowley’s work. He never visited the art gallery again, but he did keep miracling anything he could do without into the city, quietly doing his own charitable part. Aziraphale knew better than to spend any words on it, but there were other ways of expressing his pride and happiness with his demon that Crowley _didn’t_ mind, so all was well. The angel also felt rather chuffed to be able to admire the few works Crowley considered his best, and worthy of keeping around in his apartment.

Then, however, Aziraphale began to sense there was something Crowley wasn’t telling him. It was a rather unusual feeling; throughout their shared history, it’d usually been him that’d kept things from the demon, and Crowley wearing all of himself on his sleeve in a sometimes rather distressingly open manner that’d seen the angel grow increasingly skilled in mental contortionism over the centuries. Now, however, every time Aziraphale visited he could feel a quiet, secretive miracle happening behind the door just before the demon opened it. There were conspicuous empty spots in the studio where he’d have expected various works in progress. Once, he spotted a whole series of vacant nails halfway up the wall Crowley usually faced while painting, as if a collection of works had been lovingly displayed there. They’d only been visible the one time. Crowley was more careful afterwards, he was quite sure.

No amount of precautions could’ve prevented what happened next, however.

There had been a wine tasting evening in Mayfair that night, and a pair of immortal beings going rather overboard at it. Aziraphale and Crowley had been quick to identify their own personal favorites, and had proceeded to at first stealthily refill their glasses with them and then attempted to alter them into even better, finely tailored vintages of their very own. They’d stopped short of finding perfection, on Crowley’s sage repeating of Aziraphale’s statement that such a thing was unattainable, but they had resolved to try again sometime.

Upon arriving back at Crowley’s apartment, they were so sloshed they could scarcely find the demon’s snake-themed doorbell, much less the keyhole. There was much giggling and stumbling, bumping into walls and being far more occupied with one another than finding their joint way forward. Crowley’s giddy pulse found itself thoroughly chased down his neck by Aziraphale’s mouth. Rather than helplessly resigning to this fate, the grinning demon had set out to distract the angel in turn by enveloping him in his aura’s dark caress, spreading enticing tingles where no physical touch could reach. They were halfway to eachother’s ethereal and occult cores when Crowley remembered, with a start of clarity that snapped open Aziraphale’s eyes as well, that he’d rather forgotten to hide a certain series of somethings in his studio. He raised a hand for a quick miracle – but halted as he sensed something else that didn’t belong.

Or rather, _someone._

“Dearest?” Aziraphale breathed as coils of light and darkness withdrew, exchanging fervent heat for cautious silence. He instantly sobered up enough to halt the world’s spinning. “What’s wrong?”

Crowley quietly miracled open the door and padded inside with supernatural stealth, beckoning the angel to follow. He slightly relaxed upon realizing there was no Hellish or Heavenly influence to be felt inside, but he still wasn’t a fan of unexpected human visitors. In some ways, humans could be worse, as he well knew.

How had one even gotten in, though? His front door should’ve known better than to allow anyone through that wasn’t him or the angel. By all rights, it should only open to a miracle, not any earthly key or crowbar.

Aziraphale had picked up on the intruder as well. “In the studio?” he whispered. As Crowley nodded, the angel strode over at once before the fumbling demon could stop him. Evidently, Aziraphale had sobered up quicker and more thoroughly. His focus had not only returned, but mercilessly zeroed in on the one unwitting subject now turning around in Crowley’s dark, chaotic den of art, a few pieces of it under his arm.

“Pray tell, just what do you think you’re doing?” Aziraphale snapped on a light behind him, blinding the hoodie-wearing intruder as he cowered down and shielded his eyes, the only part of his face visible above a dark scarf. “Leave at once, and we might forget this ever happened.” The angel was using the same tone of voice he might direct at a particularly stubborn customer to his shop, annoyed and stern but not yet overly serious. This was hardly the first time something like this had befallen them; there was no need to rush into things. Crowley, joining the angel, felt the creeping sense there _might_ be a need to get slightly more serious, although he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why.

“You,” the man breathed through the scarf. “You’re the artist. Anthony Crowley.”

Crowley shrugged, carefully keeping his composure. “What’s it to you?”

“Oh, this is even better than taking some of these right from the source.” The man straightened out. “You want to remain anonymous. Can’t fathom why, but I can arrange that.” He set down the paintings he’d been carrying. “Here’s the deal. These go through me from now on. In return, I don’t spill the beans on your identity.”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, who’d stiffened in a mixture of shock and indignation. “The shadow side of being liked, angel. There’s always a catch. Well, except if it’s you.” He snapped his fingers before the angel could stop him, but found the effect curiously lacking. “Hm. You should’ve frozen up by now,” he informed the burglar, more curious than concerned as he inspected his hand.

“I sense something holy, dear.” Aziraphale quickly moved forward, his concern-curiosity ratio the inverse of Crowley’s. At the same time, the intruder pulled a crucifix necklace from his hoodie. “You mean this?” he uttered, the bewildered look in his eyes stating this night was very quickly turning into something far more absurd than he’d expected.

“Ugh, yes, put it back.” Crowley flapped a hand, turning away. “Good _Lord,_” he mocked. “A truly religious burglar? _That’s_ how you got in?” He tutted at Aziraphale. “Really, angel. The things your side will stand for.”

“Former side,” the angel was quick to interject, raising an indignated finger.

“Of course, of course. Still, this looks like a job for you, I’m warded off good and proper.”

Aziraphale sputtered. “I can’t just… miracle him who knows where! I still feel guilty about that soldier, you know.”

“Soldier?” the intruder muttered under his breath, eyes apprehensively flicking between the bickering duo, baffled to have become an aside so easily, and also increasingly, dangerously unsettled and nervous at what he was overhearing. His hand almost involuntarily crept behind his back.

Crowley briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, alright then, my treat.” He quickly rubbed his hands together as if warming up. “But let me just say, for the record, I absolutely _loathe_ doing this.” He tensed up, bracing himself, and –

– everything happened very fast indeed.

In a flash, Crowley’s face morphed into something horrible, all slavering fangs, staring, burning eyes and swarming maggots. In a flash, the burglar simultaneously stumbled back in apt terror and drew a very mundane, almost unassuming gun.

In a flash, Crowley recalled that it’s called the _fight-_or-flight response, and this trick didn’t always result in his victims harmlessly fainting or running away. Sometimes, in this day and age, it resulted in someone being reduced to a fine red mist.

The demon reacted like scaled lightning, darting into snake form just as the deafening bang of the man’s fear went off. Aziraphale responded even faster, and the bullet fluttered away into a burst of rainbow confetti before it could whizz through any of Crowley’s falling coils like so much air. Then the angel reacted further, a burning aura flaring up from his entire outline, his halo extending three feet off his head and his wings flinging out to shield Crowley from any further threat. “_How dare you,_” he intoned, embodying the very antithesis of ‘be not afraid’.

“Angel –”

“I ought to smite you off the face of this good Earth!”

“Angel, he’s sstill got a _gun_ –”

“Don’t you brandish that at me,” the angel hissed in a voice caustic enough to reduce any spine to quivering jelly, striding towards the terrified, cowering man before him. His mere proximity heated the gun into a sizzling glow until the burglar dropped it with a strangled scream. Aziraphale miracled it away with a decisive gesture and slightly composed himself, but only just, before raising a commanding hand. “You shall never pick up a weapon or set foot in this city again,” he declared. “You shall not recall anything of this night but an inordinate and all-encompassing sense of terror. Now, _begone._” There was a hint of faraway thunder to the snap of his fingers. Afterward, Crowley was surprised at the absence of a smoking crater in his designer floortiles.

Aziraphale’s shoulders trembled for a moment before he turned on his heel, knelt down and gathered the stunned demon into his arms.

Crowley had just enough presence of mind to wriggle back into his favourite shape and hug his angel back. “I’m alright. We’re fine,” he babbled. “Angel, hey.” Aziraphale had buried his face into his shoulder so tightly not even leaning back allowed the demon to see him. “Hey. Remember Warlock’s birthday that one time? You miracled the gun into a water pistol and only mentioned I’d almost been shot a week later.” He stroked Aziraphale’s hair, eyes wide. “What’s all this for, now?”

“That was the least of our worries then,” the angel managed. “Discorporation wasn’t such a terrible _risk_ then! I won’t have you dragged back Down There –”

“Even if he had managed to shoot me, wounds are easy to heal, angel.” Crowley found himself trembling slightly, but more because of the state Aziraphale was in than any fear of his own. He’d been perfectly safe. His guardian angel had been with him, after all. “It’s alright.”

“But what if… oh, these physical bodies can be so _fragile…_”

“I’ve got nothing to fear with you protecting me,” Crowley smiled.

A warm light bloomed in the studio at that, with a clear source despite filling the room indiscriminately and casting very few shadows. Crowley’s hold grew gentler as he sensed Aziraphale’s relief and love filtering through, filling the air. “That’s it. We’re okay.”

Then Aziraphale sighed and slightly raised his head, and his arms tensed up a second time. “…Oh.”

And Crowley realized what was on the wall behind him, what he’d completely forgotten to miracle away in all the commotion and what his angel now had an unobstructed view of. _Oh, indeed._ “Er. You weren’t supposed to see those yet.”

“Oh, _Crowley…_”

The demon glanced around at the works displayed on the wall, then back at his angel’s wandering eyes.

These were what he’d picked up painting for. These were what he’d cranked out all the rest to practice for. These were what the exposition had finally given him the confidence to start on. Every brushstroke on them had given him boundless joy, but he hadn’t been exactly ready to show them off yet – but then again, knowing him and his penchant for taking things to heart, he might’ve kept on slowing himself down forever without a little kickstart.

They were all Aziraphale. They were him at Eden, a radiant impression against the first looming rainclouds with a backdrop of paradisical green. They were him in Rome, extending an inviting hand and a warm smile amidst a vile, grinning populace that didn’t need a demon to corrupt them. They were him in the bookshop, lovingly holding an ancient tome bound in cracked leather, the promise of restoration clear in his gentle eyes. There were impressions of him; eyes, hands and wings, glimpses like one might catch in a stolen glance. There were a few glorious, whirling colour combinations of sky blue, white and gleaming gold that somehow managed to capture Aziraphale’s ethereal self, visually portraying something only ever sensed by another celestial being.

The centerpiece was a full-body portrait of the angel as he was now, extending one hand downwards and wielding his flaming sword in the other, wings spread out behind him. The backdrop was formed by an acrylic pour in pastels and gleaming gold, forming a dizzying, whirling kaleidoscope of light and colour, almost creating a burning aura to match the fierce look in his eyes. The whole of it formed a painfully honest expression of admiration, fascination and love without end, a combination of ancient emotions and modern techniques, and it stole Aziraphale’s breath away. It was like looking right into the sun. He felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “I didn’t even model for you,” he breathed distractedly, still getting his thoughts in order.

“No need,” Crowley managed through a constricted throat. “You’re, uh, pretty thoroughly scorched into my retinas, angel.”

The angel turned to face Crowley. “Good Lord, this is how you see me?” He had in fact seen himself through Crowley’s eyes, or the occult equivalent thereof, at times when their ethereal and occult selves melded into one, but that was a sense of seeing beyond sight. Seeing it in front of him with his physical eyes, the human way, was overwhelming in a whole new way.

Crowley sputtered for a moment before pointedly glancing at the spot where the burglar had been. “You have to ask that? That painting has nothing on what I’ve just seen with my own two eyeballs, angel.” He fondly shook his head, still full of awe. “Guardian of Eden. I was created to shape the cosmos, managed to recapture some of that with paint, but you were created to be _that_.” He nodded at the centerpiece. “You should’ve seen yourself just now.”

Aziraphale followed Crowley’s eyes, turning this over in his head. “The artist and the guardian,” he mused. He cocked his head, certain things falling into place. Giving away his sword, his eternal worry over Crowley through the centuries, the restoration of his books and the hoarding of the knowledge therein without ever voluntarily sharing it as a proper Principality ought. His Choir of angels were teachers, after all, but he’d always been as lousy at that aspect as Crowley had been at performing genuine evil. Even preventing the end of the world had stemmed from the same protective impulse, where Crowley had mainly valued humanity for what they’d done and made. Even the protection and nurturing of Crowley’s artistic reputation throughout London had been this, resulting in the collision of the artist and the protector.

Heaven had kept him from protecting, considering earthly matters beneath him. Hell had kept Crowley from creating, pushing him to destroy. Now, without the constraints of either, they hadn’t just slipped into something truer to one another, but also to themselves.

Aziraphale looked up at the golden conflagration on the wall. “A golden glance of what should be,” he murmured.

“It’s a kind of magic,” Crowley grinned, apparently having had Queen on the brain a bit more consciously. “Still, as glorious as that side of you is, I prefer you when you’re not as terrifying.”

“Oh, do you.” Aziraphale’s mouth quirked as if he was trying not to laugh, in that way that’d infuriated Crowley for centuries but now just made him smile wider. “Yeah. Why’d you think I kept saving you all those times? Didn’t want you to have to bust out the avenging angel.”

“Well, I probably wouldn’t have gone about it as creatively as you did. And I did so love the excitement of your rescues, dear.”

“I liked what came after better. Spending time together.”

And how could Aziraphale do anything but kiss him after that? “My soft demon.”

“Fierce angel.” Crowley smirked at the angel’s blush, turning back to the paintings for a moment. “So, erm. I think I did what I set out to do. Capture you the way I didn’t think Leonardo had.”

“You do keep astounding me, dearest.” The painting really did have nothing on the fierce fondness lighting up Aziraphale’s eyes now.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Crowley muttered. “These are what I was practicing for, that stupid amount of works. Think I’ll take it a bit easier from now on, though. Cranking them out doesn’t mean as much as really enjoying the process. Even the stars were a commission by the Almighty, you know? This is the first thing I’m really doing for me.”

“Free from any and all bollocks, dear?” his angel beamed, so visibly and tangibly delighted Crowley felt he might burst with it. He nuzzled into Aziraphale’s hair, feeling he didn’t even need the paintings when he had his muse right here. “Free from anything but you,” he grinned, feeling lighter than paint fumes.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 After said Big Avocado, they’d been back into contact with Warlock Dowling. Crowley had gotten every detail of the boy’s meeting with Hastur ‘la Vista’ on the Fields of Megiddo out of him for truly demonic amounts of gleeful schadenfreude.[return to text]
> 
> 2 Aziraphale had, in fact, tried his hand at writing before; poetry in Elizabethan days, and exciting tales of adventure and discovery in the late 1800s, spurred on by the works and success of Jules Verne and his ilk. Despite his considerable head start where it came to experience and knowledge to draw from, no publisher had ever given him the time of day, and the angel now preferred to squirrel away the memories and pretend none of it ever happened. Crowley, however, owned and utterly treasured most of his discarded manuscripts, but would never let this slip.[return to text]
> 
> 3 Crowley’s personal computer was ancient but didn’t look it. He’d purchased it as a novelty in 1970 when computers had become available to the public, and subsequently miracled it into the latest version of affairs as soon as he’d caught wind of them. As he’d never bothered to learn about the thing’s inner workings, it still had the processor of a 1970 Datapoint 2200, even though it now had a gleaming, curved wraparound screen thinner than a finger, as well as a fancy light-up keyboard he thought looked nifty. It had never been plugged in even once.[return to text]
> 
> 4 Especially favoured were editing Wikipedia articles to contain very subtle misinformation (keeping humans annoyed _and_ paying attention to what they read, a win-win), and giving raving Yelp reviews to places he knew to be abysmal in quality. He’d been lucky enough to still have knowledge of a few of these places saved up; as a demon, he could sense malcontent simply passing by.[return to text]


End file.
